


Ashes From Hydra's Fire

by Be_the_Spark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Mild torture, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:37:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7056559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_the_Spark/pseuds/Be_the_Spark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Avengers scattered, HYDRA is finally poised to strike. Steve Rogers and his team learn the whole truth at last, but it might be too late to repair things to what they were before. Meanwhile, Natasha Romanov and Bucky Barnes must contend with an old enemy and reunite with their friends if they hope to save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Marvel/Marvel Cinematic Universe. I do not own the rights to them, and this story is solely for entertainment purposes.

Russia, 2001

 

There are always tricks to surviving any kind of pain. Some people close their eyes beforehand, imagining worse than what will come. Yelena Belova had another method. When the torture began, hitting her so badly that she wanted to die, she summoned it. Every little needle, every searing flame, every single goddamn weapon they laid against her skin, drove her deeper inside her own head. It worked in the basement, and in the training room as well.

But on the day they sent her to the Red Room, she was caught off guard. Yelena had been sparring, her partner a wiry boy with tousled black hair. When their severe-looking headmistress pulled her aside, out of reach of the daylight beaming from the windows under the ceiling, Yelena moved with her stiffly. 

Please let her see that I’ve been trying so hard, wished her inner voice. She’d been disciplined only once or twice within the past eight years, deservedly if she supposed. Perfection. That was her goal. Perfection until the graduation, and then she’d kill everyone in the organization who’d ever touched her, or so much as looked like they would have.

As she waited for the woman to speak, Yelena absentmindedly pulled her long blonde braid in front of her shoulder. It was as shiny as silk and hard as straw. Someday she’d cut it all off, grow it anew.

“Stop that,” said the woman, her tone striking like a viper. “You are failing, Yelena. Distracted. Weak.”

Yelena turned rigid, and she suddenly feared that her own heart could stop within an instant. The air of her homeland, once familiar and akin to her soul, betrayed her, filling her with cold.

“How may I correct these flaws?” was Yelena’s automatic response.

The woman’s lip curled. “The Red Room. Go now to take your test. If you do not pass, you do not return.”

The Red Room. Test. Yelena had no idea what either had in store, beyond the horror stories that the other pupils whispered. Red Room. Test….Mama. Birthday cake, she thought forcefully, breathing out the dread. 

The hallway to the Red Room was not empty. A russet-haired girl slightly above her age was standing at a distance from the door, her back straight against the wall. A nervous countenance flickered on her face as Yelena approached. She’d seen this girl before, earning the top marks and the fear of anyone who was set to fight against her. However, she didn’t know her name. Real names were meaningless in the world of assassins, and therefore not encouraged to be remembered.

“This hallway would be less frightening,” spoke up the girl, “if they brightened the lights.”

Blinking in surprise, Yelena glanced upward. The girl was right; the dim fluorescents did add another layer of uneasiness to her disposition. It was as if she were walking through water, parted like the Red Sea of biblical times, only the Grey Sea would have been more of an apt name.

“I think that is the point,” said Yelena. “Are you here to be tested?”

The other girl nodded. “Are you afraid?”

Yelena shrugged. “I will get through it,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. No matter what, weakness could not be shown.

The girl’s eyes widened. “You are the one, aren’t you? The others, they say that you never scream. That you feel no pain.”

Do they? thought Yelena, her head swimming in a daze while wondering who was talking about her. 

“Help me,” urged the girl suddenly. “I don’t know what to do in there. How do you get through it?”

Yelena hesitated. She’d never let anyone in on her secret before. Her classmates were not allowed to befriend one another. It was the isolation that reminded them they were becoming less than human. More so, though, if you asked the instructors. Either way, Yelena did not want to become like them.

“My mother gave me a party for my sixth birthday,” she revealed. “Every time they hurt me here, I taste the dense homemade sweet cake as hard as I can.” She smiled, already remembering. “I surround myself with as many gifts as I want. It does more than turn the pain off. It makes it feel…good, I guess.”

Her new friend frowned. “You can remember all of it. When you were six?”

“Sometimes I make more stuff up,” said Yelena. Her memories of home were precious but few. It worked, regardless of accuracy.

The girl gave a small, wavering smile. “Thank you,” she said, the door to the Red Room opening moments later. “That helps so much. Good luck.”

She wasn’t going first? Confused, Yelena frowned. “You as well…” she began, as the man wearing a white lab coat emerged and set his gaze directly upon her.

He beckoned her with a wave of his hand. Yelena stepped forward, with the other girl following, much to her surprise. Something inexplicable was going on, and Yelena did not like it at all.

The Red Room might have been painted the color for which it was named, but it was difficult to tell within the darkness. There was one lightbulb in the center of the room, hanging above the chair. The breath in her chest formed a knot as the man pushed her forward. He said nothing while strapping her into the cold metal chair, so she used the opportunity to numb her mind. 

Mama. Birthday cake. Presents. Mama…

Finally, he said, “The pain is meant to make you stronger, Yelena. You must be broken to be rebuilt. That is the point of what we do in here. You have not allowed that to happen.” He looked over his shoulder at the other girl, who stepped forward.

“She evades the pain by memory replacement.”

Yelena stared at her, in shock, in horror–the betrayal cutting deep even before the man said, “We’ll have to displace those memories now. You may begin.” He handed her a long, thick wire.

Yelena flinched as the girl drew closer. She didn’t know what the wire was for, she didn’t want to know what the wire was for–

The girl hesitated, blinking uncertainly.

“Natasha,” said the man sharply.

With unsteady hands, the girl tied the wire around Yelena’s head and pulled it tight. Yelena winced, too afraid to block out the pain.

After making sure it was fastened to her head properly, the man in the white lab coat attached the wire to a machine. Yelena stared at the russet-haired girl who, within the space of five minutes, had let her think she was for the first time in eight years not alone.

The machine switch button clicked.

A single tear slid down Yelena Belova’s cheek. She was only fifteen.


	2. It's a Wakandan Life

Ireland, present-day

 

“Just tell it to me again, lass,” said Seamus Donoghue from the other side of the counter. His weathered face was creased with confusion as he grumbled to the woman sitting before him, “We can offer you the discretion of our company, accommodations, anything ya need. Fair trade for services rendered.”

Natasha kept her eyes locked in the bartender’s, unyielding. It had been a half-hope of hers, that wearing a civilian jacket on an island notoriously populated with redheads would be enough to keep a low-profile. Apparently her face was more famous than she’d thought.

She twisted her lips, considering her next words. Anything that was a clear yes or no would allow the Irish Republican Army control of her fate. And ambiguity would only keep this discussion going until she reached either one of the two. Natasha slipped her gaze over her shoulder, making sure that the pub’s midday crowd was still sparse, then looked past Seamus to study the bottles on the liquor shelf. She lifted her mouth in a smile for whom only someone that knew her well would have rung false.

“My services are not easily rendered these days,” she told him, her voice slow and even.

Seamus flashed a knowing grin, and reached for the tallest jug on the shelf. “Now, this be for a stronger mettle, Ms. Romanov. If you’d like the challenge, though –”

“Then I’ll put more consideration into accepting your offer.” 

As she watched the bartender pour the shot of whiskey into a glass, she asked, “What job would the IRA have me do, if I say yes?”

Seamus shook his head and handed her the glass. “That information comes under contract.”

Natasha raised the shot partway to her mouth, raising a skeptical brow. “Really? Because if I refuse the job, your people won’t hesitate to burn my cover. Telling me now won’t jeopardize your mission, but it just might entice me to join. You know, if it’s interesting. Slainte,” she added, finally tipping the glass past her teeth. The liquid tingled on her lips like flames, but they didn’t burn. Her mettle had been forged long before her own moniker. 

It was a good thing that Irish terrorists usually had uncomplicated liaisons like Donoghue. Natasha had met houseflies that were harder to play. She was on her second sip when Seamus lowered his voice to a whisper and admitted, “They don’t tell me everything, see. But it would be doin’ someone in. Clean shot, back o’ the neck.”

How original, Natasha thought grimly. “Where would this go down?”

He hesitated. “Someplace down in Belfast.”

The Bloody Sunday Memorial. Vague as the hint was, Natasha knew. She knew because she’d done the homework. All of the pieces were finally together.

“So, now that the Black Widow herself is in on the plan, is she interested to join us?”

Natasha smiled coyly. “When can I meet your handler?”

With a time and place on a scrap of paper in her palm and her heart feeling triumphant as she walked back to the hotel, Natasha texted the intel to one of her contacts. 

Thirty-five seconds later, the reply beeped on her phone. 

Extraction?

On the normal day, she could have waited. But this was a time-sensitive mission–she was meeting with Seamus’s handler in four hours and the Bloody Sunday Memorial was in fourteen.

I have this one. Meet up if you can.

 

Wakanda

 

Through both work and war, Steven Rogers had seen his share of the world. The sophisticated charms of Paris and Venice, the balance between antiquity and innovation held by London–he appreciated all of it with a bearing nostalgia.

But the beauty of his current home was set apart from everywhere else. Untouched. It was a quiet world, born out of mist and trees and spiritual power. Steve could see it well from the stretch of window that spanned across the operations base, a structure granted generously by King T’Challa.

Unfortunately, being tucked away in the jungle was not without its disadvantages. Its quietness was not designed for a band of nomads and military veterans, and especially not for a city dweller like Scott Lang. No matter how many times he said cheerfully, “Beats prison!” and Sam Wilson chimed, “Beats Afghanistan!” it was obvious that everyone was getting on by just waiting for the next mission. Steve couldn’t blame them. Wakanda was no place for the restless.

With this in mind, he roamed the white hallways until his ears pricked at the murmurs from a television’s speakers, and he followed the sound into a cafeteria. Wanda Maximoff was leaning forward in a black leather recliner, her fingers flipping slowly through a magazine while a program featuring brightly colored dinosaurs played on the screen in front of her. Behind the hanging curtain of long auburn hair, her eyes seemed to be half-closed. Steve resisted a sigh, and took a seat in the chair next to Wanda. She lifted her face instantly, her bright green eyes alight with anticipation. Steve shook his head, answering her unspoken question with an unspoken apology. 

However, the disappointment reflecting on her face was quickly covered by a flash of her dimples. “Hi,” she said softly.

Steve cleared his throat. “You know, we can ask T’Challa’s people about getting access to their library. They might have those Harry Potter books. Everyone’s read Harry Potter, right?” he added, uncertain from the way Wanda raised an eyebrow at him.

“Have you read Harry Potter?” she asked pointedly.

“It’s on my list.” That wasn’t exactly true. He’d received the recommendation at a Hawaiian Fourth of July barbecue a few years ago, although in retrospect it had most likely been another way for the Avengers to poke at his gradually diminishing pop-culture ignorance while they still could. But Steve, good-naturedly, had pulled out his tiny notepad to write it down, just before an inebriated Tony Stark yelled, “Expecto Patronum!” and accidentally swung a large sparkler stick next to an open can of lighter fluid. Unfortunately, the can had been dripping, placed right next to where Bruce Banner was standing, the result ultimately ending with an Incredible Hulk ripping around on a volcanic island like a green King Kong on steroids, as Stark meanwhile declared, “This is why we don’t invite British wizards to celebrate American independence!” 

Remembering it now elicited a bittersweet smile. Occasions turned out that way often enough back when Steve and Tony had led the Avengers. But, like a bouquet of balloons tied to cement blocks, those memories were weighted down by their present reality.

“Well, at the very least, you’re allowed to change the channel,” Steve tried again. Wanda rolled her eyes. “Video games? Netflix? Sorry, I don’t know what your generation does when it doesn’t want to be bored.”

Her eyes searched his, curious, and–as others might have described it– unnerving. With Wanda, you were never sure of how much of your soul she could already see. “What did your generation do?” she asked, her Sokovian accent rolling out the question.

Steve mused, “I guess we still had movie theaters. Sports. The radio. There was this one time when Bucky and I wanted to make it to a spring carnival after school, but then I got held back in class.” He paused to make sure she wasn’t wearing the “polite interest” mask that his anecdotes sometimes received. But Wanda was the rare one who didn’t seem to view his childhood memories as history lessons. 

A short breath of laughter escaped her mouth, followed by, “Why would you get held back?”

“I argued with a teacher,” he remembered, showing a rueful smile. “He didn’t like the family background of this one kid who sat behind me, and was trying to blame his relatives for crashing everything from the Titanic to Wall Street.”

“So you interrupted the class?” guessed Wanda.

Steve chuckled, “Oh, I would never interrupt class. I did write a thirteen-page paper connecting his own family tree to every major disaster of the twentieth century, though.”

Her jaw dropped in amusement, and he continued, “I’m sure the only reason he took it so personally was because he’d read half of it to the class out loud before figuring out where my argument was headed. But after my detention I found Bucky sitting on the steps, and he told me we’d missed the carnival. Then he said, ‘It’s okay, Steve. We have that box of pocket money buried under my porch. We’ll just ride to the next town and catch it.’ And he could have left without me, too. I thought when I finally got out of school that maybe he had; at least, I’d hoped he had, since one of us deserved to go. Instead, he’d been waiting for me for about three hours, just chewing gum and drawing inside his textbooks.”

Wanda gave him a smile, though there was a bit of sad in its wistfulness. “That is very patient. I spent a long time in a cell back in Sokovia, while I was a science experiment. They gave me books and music too, but I found their minds more entertaining. I was never the one who had a problem sitting still.” A certain emphasis was placed on her last sentence, and Steve waited. 

It’s okay, Wanda, he thought, sure that she knew his sentiment. Whenever you’re ready to talk about it. 

Yet with the more time that passed along, the less likely it seemed that the subject of Pietro Maximoff would ever be unlocked and freed for open conversation. There was a sad sense to it, the irony of feeling as though mentioning the dead was killing them all over again. Steve had certainly felt that way after losing Bucky, and he suspected that the only reason he was becoming more comfortable mentioning his friend now was upon discovery that James Buchanan Barnes was in fact still alive. There would not be any such reunion in this life for Wanda and her brother.

Within that moment, a consoling truth passed between the soldier and the rebel, one that made Steve contemplate under which label he fell. “I guess we’re not so different,” he said finally. Wanda smiled again.

“I hope you’re getting a valuable education from that,” a voice quipped from the doorway. Both of them glanced up to see Clint Barton, wearing nonchalance as if the expression was invented to hide his solemn soul.

With an indicative glance at the television set, he said, “Dinosaurs. Cute. Maybe Nathaniel can work his way up to Jurassic Park. What do you think, Wand?”

The girl bit the corner of a dark-polished thumbnail, looking thoughtful. “I think I want to watch Jurassic Park now. Is that on your list?” she asked Steve.

Steve was just shy of hitting one hundred and seven items on his bucket list. For a reason of which he was aware and found silly, he didn’t want to go past one hundred and six. Nevertheless, this was Wanda asking him to watch a movie with her. “It’s on my list now.”

An observant Clint whistled at the scene. “Hey kids. Movie night sounds fun and all. Let’s have it when we get back.”

“Back?” said Wanda, startled, the magazine falling from her lap as Steve snapped up straight from the chair. She was on her feet mere seconds after him.

“A mission?” they asked together.

Clint nodded. “Nat just reached out. She’s in Ireland. Says she doesn’t need backup, but that’s usually when she needs it the most. What do you say, should we round up the…what exactly are we calling ourselves again?”

Unable to resist a smirk, Steve said as he walked past Clint, “You’ll have to ask our team’s naming committee on the way north.”

The answer changed on an hourly basis. Scott had started throwing suggestions in the air two weeks ago, claiming he had to find the “most boss of all team names that ever bossed” for his daughter’s benefit, in order to compensate for him being unable to legally see her. Steve couldn’t deny him that one privilege, but he left it up to Sam to decide on the final contender. And since Sam refused to be affiliated with the Secret Avengers, the Captain Bug-Bird Squad, or anything else that little Cassie Lang would approve, they were currently at an impasse.

“What is happening in Ireland?”

Steve stopped and turned at the sound of Wanda’s voice. Clint answered, tone dark and suddenly ill-humored, “Politics.” Looking at Steve, he added, “This isn’t an all-hands-on-deck assignment, Cap. You, me, Sam–”

“I’m coming,” Wanda retorted, so fiercely that Clint seemed surprised.

Steve agreed, “Everyone’s been locked up here for days. This’ll be good for us, in more ways than one.”

But as Clint nodded with resolve, and Wanda with relief, there was tiny hole of doubt in Steve’s confidence. Yes, the pros outweighed the cons–taking the entire group out to intervene in a political conspiracy would be a good way to both assess and exercise their skills as a team.

At the same time, even though T’Challa’s presence would remain at the base, it still didn’t feel right to not leave anyone behind to help him protect it.

But what could Steve do about that? Nothing helpful. He buried that chink in his armor, and set his mind to work.


End file.
